 “Kids are too soft these days.”
I rolled my eyes and tuned out the parent next to me at the youth baseball game when they started on a tirade about “today’s kids.” The truth is, I’m tired of hearing people say that we are raising a generation of soft kids. When did we all agree that we wanted to raise tough kids anyways? Why should our goal be to raise kids who slough off danger like it’s no big deal? Why should our goal be to raise kids who tolerate being bullied by their parents? Why should our goal be to raise kids who don’t know how to express any feelings other than anger? I know the answer that parents like the one next me will give. “We can’t raise soft kids because life isn’t fair.” “People are going to be mean to our children when they are adults.” “Kids need to develop thick skin to make it in this cruel world.” I just don’t buy it. What if we all tried to raise soft kids instead of pressuring them to be tough all the time? Kids who aren’t aftaid to express their feelings and emotions and will likely be better partners and parents for it. Kids who notice other people hurting in the world and want to help create change, rather than place blame. Kids who let their heart, rather than their pride or arrogance, guide them in life. If having soft kids means having kids who know the power behind their words and choose kindness over hate, then let me have soft kids. If raising soft kids means that they don’t have to listen to me shouting criticisms at them in front of their teammates, coaches, and opponents, then I hope they turn out soft. If raising soft kids means that I have kids who don’t tolerate racism, prejudice, and hate, then I hope I raise soft kids. Maybe all these soft kids can help make the world a better place. Isn’t that a better option than throwing our hands up and conceding that the world sucks? Maybe I’m just too soft myself but I have hope that we can do better. We have to do better.
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 When I was 4 years old, my preschool class took a field trip to go hiking in the woods at a local state park - and we got lost.
I don’t really remember the details of that day - but I do remember the feelings. It turns out that parenting is a lot like that field trip to the woods. Sometimes it can leave me feeling lost. Sometimes it can feel dangerous and scary. But sometimes it can also be full of beauty and wonder. When my babies were little, I could carry them on my hip as I traversed the trails of parenting. Together we could look at all the beauty around us. As they got older, my babies wanted to walk as they held my hand. Together we wandered through life’s many trails. Back then I could guide them down the most beautiful trails but could also let them show me the woods through their own eyes. When things felt safe, I could send them ahead of me, their laughter and giggles filling the air around us. Those days of parenting were a beautiful adventure. But once they reached their teenage years, they needed me to slow my pace and leave more space between us. They wanted more room to explore on their own. And now parenting feels a lot like that day I was lost in the woods. It’s scary in here more often than not. Still beautiful. But scary. Some of the paths in these woods are ones that I have walked many times and they are ones I don’t want my children to have to walk. Ever. Most of those paths are barely visible anymore. Their entrances are blocked by thick thorny branches and tall grass has filled in their once well-worn paths. Danger signs have been posted to warn anyone who attempts to tread those paths. Those of us who have walked those paths know where they lead - to dead ends, scary mazes, and sudden cliff drops. Although those paths might sometimes let in some brief glimpses of a blue sky and let you feel the warmth of the sun, they are paths filled mostly with darkness. But I can’t stop my teen from going down those paths. Even if I beg and plead or throw myself at a path’s entrance, some of these paths are ones he must walk on his own. He needs to see for himself what the path is really like. And so we have to let him go. We’ve helped him fill his backpack with all the necessary supplies. We’ve armed him with maps and compasses and emergency flares. He knows we’ll be there to rescue him whenever he needs an emergency airlift from the path. He knows he can always turn around and follow the path back to the clearing. Back to us. But he also knows in his heart that he must make the trek. And I know in my heart that I must let him. And just like that day I was lost in the woods, he will find his way too.  Photo by Alexandra_Koch of Pixabay Before I became a parent, I assumed parenting was hard.
Then I had my first baby and quickly realized that parenting is way harder than I ever could have imagined. When my baby became a toddler with his own big personality, an inhuman-like ability to slither like a snake out of my arms when he didn’t want to be carried, and a deep commitment to throwing massive tantrums, I realized that parenting had somehow become even more challenging. Parenting a high schooler is the hardest phase yet Fast forward to today and I find myself facing the hardest phase yet of parenting: parenting a high schooler. With just a short bit of time so far under his belt as a high school freshman, I find myself more confused than ever when it comes to how to parent my son. When do I step in and communicate with his teachers? How much do I remind him and check up on him about his school work and home work, especially during these times of partial remote learning? When do I loop in the administration if there are bigger concerns? What ARE bigger concerns at this age? When do I get involved? When do I keep quiet and shrink into the background? Today the finish line of his childhood looms larger than ever in the distance. Next year he can drive a car. In two years we start looking at colleges. In three years he’ll be in his final year of high school. Just like that — these days will be gone. The pressure of finishing high school looms large Sometimes the pressure of that looming finish line is overwhelming, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. We have just a short time to hold on to him tightly and enjoy these final years while at the same time stepping back from him and letting him make his own decisions and fail on his own. Parenting a high schooler seems to be a never-ending cycle of missteps and course corrections, a constant stream of muttering lessons to ourselves: “Oops I stepped in too far. I should have let him handle this.” “Oops, I should have jumped in sooner. This was too much for him to handle on his own.” For over 14 years I have known that every stage of parenting was getting harder. Yet the challenges I face today as a the mother of a high schooler have somehow caught me completely off guard. Sometimes I miss those newborn sleepless nights, the toddler tantrums, and the nervous early school days. Sometimes I miss my little boy. Sometimes I want that finish line of childhood to stay in the distance just a little bit longer. My son is still a child but also an emerging adult But, when this almost adult son of mine who towers over me, wraps me in his arms and tells me he loves me all while asking for $20 to go out with his friends, I’m reminded that balance still exists between the child and adult sides of him. Somehow, despite all the uncertainties and challenges that this stage of parenting brings, it also seems to be the best so far. There is space to just enjoy each other’s company and there is beauty in watching the rapid transformation that takes place in high school. Just as we did with every other stage of parenting, we will figure it out. We will be ok, even when we cross that finish line. (originally published 09/30/2020 on Grown and Flown at: https://grownandflown.com/parenting-high-school-freshman-is-hard/)  “Kids are too soft these days.”
I rolled my eyes and tuned out the parent next to me at the youth baseball game when he started on a tirade about “today’s kids.” The truth is, I’m tired of hearing people say that we are raising a generation of soft kids. When did we all agree that we wanted to raise tough kids anyways? Why should our goal be to raise kids who slough off danger like it’s no big deal? Why should our goal be to raise kids who tolerate being bullied by their parents? Why should our goal be to raise kids who don’t know how to express any feelings other than anger? I know the answer that parents like the one next me will give. “We can’t raise soft kids because life isn’t fair.” “People are going to be mean to our children when they are adults.” “Kids need to develop thick skin to make it in this cruel world.” I just don’t buy it. What if we all tried to raise soft kids? Kids who aren’t afraid to express their feelings and emotions and will likely be better partners and parents for it. Kids who notice other people hurting in the world and want to help create change, rather than place blame. Kids who let their heart, rather than their pride or arrogance, guide them in life. If having soft kids means having kids who know the power behind their words and choose kindness over hate, then let me have soft kids. If raising soft kids means that they don’t have to listen to me shouting criticisms at them in front of their teammates, coaches, and opponents, then I hope they turn out soft. If raising soft kids means that I have kids who don’t tolerate racism, prejudice, and hate, then I hope I raise soft kids. Maybe all these soft kids can help make the world a better place. Isn’t that a better option than throwing our hands up and conceding that the world sucks? Maybe I’m just too soft myself but I have hope that we can do better. We have to do better.  The other day someone asked me if I had ever tried paddle boarding.
I laughed to myself as I pictured what it would be like to try to stand my uncoordinated, clumsy self upright on a board while floating on the ocean with only my balance and a paddle to prevent me from being tossed into the water by a large wave. No, I have never tried paddle boarding. Never. But, as I woke the next morning and quickly ran through the ever growing to-do list in my mind, I started to wonder if maybe I have been paddle boarding but just didn't realize it. Perhaps the act of trying to balance parenting, wifeing (let's pretend it's a real word), friending (another real word), working, home owning and all the other responsibilities that come with adulting, is a bit like balancing on a paddle board. Some days I can barely even stand up on my paddle board, no matter how calm or still the water is that day and no matter how strong my paddle is at the time. On those days, days when my 7 year old throws himself to the floor in a full-fledged tantrum because it is time to put his shoes on or days when I get into the car already late for work and realize that my low-tire pressure light is on, all I can do is float and let the waves and ocean guide me. Some days I find the strength to stand with ease and I am suddenly an expert paddle boarder. On those days I glide over the ocean's surface, making dinner, folding laundry, paying bills and shuttling my children to and from events on time like a pro. This paddle boarding thing sure feels like second nature on those days. Some days I even find myself sitting comfortably on the board, my legs dangling playfully over the edge without a care. On those days my children are happy and polite, my work responsibilities are up to date, my house is clean and my financial stress is low. These are the days when I wish I could freeze time and soak up all the laughter, love, light and pure joy I see around me. But then, inevitably, the water changes, as it always does, without warning. Some days there is just too much weight on my shoulders. Flat tires. Sick children. Work emergencies. Sick pets. Health concerns. Broken washing machines. Suddenly I am seasick and just want to angrily cast aside my stupid paddle and board and give up. It's too much. It's too hard. I'm not built for paddle boarding. The negative self talk gets louder. What was I thinking? Why is everyone else out there balancing so beautifully on their boards today? What is wrong with me? On those days, all I can do is plunk myself down on my board, legs criss-crossed-applesauce and sit there, holding on to the board for dear life, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. But no matter what kind of day I’m having, the truth is that I’m not the only one out here paddle boarding my way through adulthood. When I pick my eyes up and really look around me, I can see that I am surrounded by a sea of other paddle boarders. While some may be struggling, some may be making it look effortless, and some may be navigating treacherous waters, all of us can benefit from remembering that we are not completely alone. Maybe today is a good day to reach out to some of your fellow paddle boarders - because it turns out there are a lot of us out here in the ocean of adulthood - just trying our best to balance and not fall off our boards.  Hey mamas, I have a message for you.
You can’t do it all. You can’t be perfect. You are going to walk into a room and forget why you even entered it. You are going to forget about a gymnastics class. You are going to be late for your kid’s bus. You are going to think you responded to that text but you actually didn’t. And you know what, it will all still be ok. You are human and the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Every day you wake up and hit the ground running because you have people that depend on you. Their needs and their wants fill your head each day on an endless loop. Most days fitting in a shower, brushing your teeth, or even peeing alone feels like a luxury. And I promise you that all those Mamas you see on social media with their on point makeup, immaculately done hair, spit up free clothes, and gym fresh bodies are far from perfect too. We all have our struggles. We all have those things that keep us awake at night with dread and worry. We all carry shame. So let’s stop pretending that we can be perfect. Let’s stop pressuring ourselves and each other to be perfect. Instead let’s meet in the middle with our beautiful imperfections and show each other and ourselves a bit more grace. Let’s remind each other that none of us are perfect. Let’s show each other our imperfections. Let’s talk about them and name them instead of feeling shameful about them and trying to hide them. Let’s light each other up with our realities instead of dimming each other with the heaviness of perfection. K? (Follow Changing Perspectives on Facebook.)  Yesterday I got to relearn slopes and angles so I could effectively support my 9th grader in geometry. Then I got to develop a tracking system that would work for my 6th grader to help him better manage the sometimes too subtle details of his class assignments. Later I got to help with a story map and reviewing point of view vs. perspective.
It is a luxury, for sure, to be able to spend this time with my children without having to worry about working at the exact same moment. In my younger days, I actually taught 6th grade math and study skills for middle schoolers. I loved my time as a teacher so this should be my jam. It’s not. I love being their mom but I hate being their teacher. Originally published on Her View From Home. Click HERE to read full article.  This is our official first day of high school picture and it sums up our feelings on the school year perfectly.
No. Nope. Not this. Stop. Get out. Go away. We want normal. Every parent, student, teacher, and administrator is having their patience, compassion, and ability to strike balance tested on a serious level these days. After just one day of a hybrid model of remote and in-person learning, I’m exhausted as a parent. I’ve spent all my hopefulness. I’ve used all my patience. I’ve done all I can do. Our family gave today our best. Tonight we regroup, refuel, reset our expectations, and hope that each day will get easier. A friend’s child asked her today “will it always be like this?” We all could benefit from asking ourselves that question every day. We need to remember that this time in our lives will pass. It is temporary. Brighter days are ahead. It will not always be like this. Here’s to finding the bright spots while we wait.  Fourteen years ago I was pregnant with my oldest son and I spent all my free moments devouring every baby book I could get my hands on. I bookmarked websites about babies and child development, confident that I would now know where to turn for guidance along every step of my parenting journey. I joined online groups with other mommies to expand my social network and find potential support resources. I prepared and prepared and then prepared some more.
But, all those books and websites failed to tell me something important; something that would make me cry rivers of tears sometimes and would keep me awake some nights. They never told me the reality that I would lose my baby, my toddler, my sweet impressionable elementary school little boy over and over again. I would grieve a million little losses all before he even learns to drive. As I sat and watched my youngest son perform in his annual end of the school year concert yesterday, I was hit with a pang of thick sadness. In that moment, I realized he has only one more year left in his elementary school experience. We are almost at the end of this chapter of his life and the pages are turning super fast. Too fast. Watching him on the stage called my memory back to when my oldest son was on that same stage singing songs about summer vacation and growing up. Where did that time go? Now he’s closer to graduating high school and going to prom than he is to boarding the kindergarten school bus for the first time or holding my hand in public. While I love the young men my boys are becoming, my heart aches for the babies I used to have. Those babies that played with my long hair as I nursed them, fell asleep as I sang them lullabies, and squealed with delight when I would make a funny face at them are no longer here. They are gone. Sure, they are forever lodged in my memories and in online photo albums but I will never see them again, never hold them again, never kiss their sweet heads covered in soft baby hair again. Those toddlers that sat in between me and my husband on Disney World rides, grabbed our hands, looked up at us with nervous anticipation and asked in raspy little voices, “ready mama daddy?” have left our lives forever. The bright eyed and naive first and second graders that bounded off the bus each day after school, eager to show us their drawings and asking to snuggle with us while watching a cartoon don’t live with me anymore. Those babies. Those toddlers. Those young school children. Gone. None of the baby books or websites or mommy groups told me about these losses. No one prepared me for how many times, like yesterday’s concert, the realization of the little boys I no longer had would hit me like a ton of bricks out of nowhere. No one gave me a heads up for the real pain I would feel when I realize they are forever changed and the former versions of them no longer exist. Don’t get me wrong. I love who my boys are now. There are so many amazing moments that fill me with joy as I parent my teen and my tween; moments that make me think that these versions of them are my favorite. Lurking at the back of my mind, however, is the knowledge that these versions of them too will fade away, and I will mourn their loss again. As I watched my oldest son on the baseball field and heard about my youngest son making amazing saves as goalie at his lacrosse game today, I made a conscious decision to savor these moments. I took mental snapshots of today’s version of my boys and sat with the realization that these versions are fading before my eyes. As other parents around me complained about the baseball game taking too long or their kids making errors, I leaned into the extra time I got to spend watching them today, choosing to focus on taking in every aspect of my boys and who they are today. Because now I know. There are still a million more little losses to come. |
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